


Longitude and Other Problems

by mific



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Action/Adventure, Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Historical, Clocks and Clockwork, F/M, Fanfiction, First Time, Gambling, Injury Recovery, M/M, Romance, original feline character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 07:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16572653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: At a high-stakes card game in unsavoury company, John tries to win so that his ship, the Pegasus, can be repaired after a storm. But Rodney is playing a game of his own, one that will change both their lives and drag them and their friends into conflict with one of the most dangerous villains in Europe.





	Longitude and Other Problems

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chibifukurou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibifukurou/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Clockwork Maker and the Sailor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16558538) by [Chibifukurou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibifukurou/pseuds/Chibifukurou). 



> Written for the 2018 SGA Reversebang for the wonderful art by Chibifukurou (embedded in the story but go leave kudos at the art post). I can never resist an historical AU!  
> As this story is set in England and they're not Americans yet, it's written in UK English. The exact chronology in terms of dates for the American Revolutionary War and the award of the prize by the Board of Longitude requires a tiny bit of artistic licence. Note that the endnote about the Problem of Longitude is very slightly spoilery.

John glanced around the shabby room, its outmoded wallpaper peeling and ripped in places, carpets threadbare. They were in the back salon of the _Idle Hands_ , a disreputable dockside inn hosting a high-stakes game of vingt-et-un. He wrinkled his nose at the faint privy-stink from the yard behind the inn; that would worsen before the night's end. Candles glowed brightly in twin candelabra on the green baize-covered table—tallow was cheap and gamblers staking this richly demanded good light, the better to catch each other cheating.

The faces at the table were well-lit but the rest of the room faded into flickering shadow. He recognised all the players save one. Ladon Radim looked especially pursed and weaselly beside that Spanish brute Kolya, his face pockmarked and saturnine. John had taken care not to run foul of him—it was said no one crossed Kolya at cards and lived to tell the tale. One of Kolya's strange henchmen leaned in a corner picking his teeth, his face greenish pale in the shadows and partly obscured by long white hair escaping a messy queue. John looked away. The albinos Kolya employed made him shiver; they seemed unnatural.

To John's right sat Lucius Lavin, their dealer tonight and the proprietor of the inn. Lavin had an untrustworthy reputation and was one reason John never drank at these games. He was unpleasantly jovial and inclined to take liberties, but John noted wryly that he avoided Kolya's eye.

His crew had not wanted John to come here at all but they needed funds to repair storm damage to the Pegasus, their ship, after a near-disastrous voyage to the Low Countries. Ronon had wanted to accompany him, but John dared not let the game be disrupted. He knew full well that bringing Ronon would end in knife play and general mayhem—Ronon could not abide Kolya's albino guards, having run foul of them in the past. Instead, John had persuaded Ronon, Teyla, and Cadman to cool their heels at an alehouse three doors down the alley, there to await him. If all went well tonight he would need their protection to get his winnings safely back to the ship and avoid Kolya's thugs.

Torrell, the Olesian, was drinking rum, either impervious to anything with which Lavin might have doctored it, or confident his status in the local crime gangs would protect him. Beyond him, Michael Kenmore lounged, twin duelling scars flanking his nose, cold eyes flickering from player to player. John counted him the second most dangerous man at the table. Kenmore's reptilian gaze paused on the man to John's immediate left, eyeing him in a predatory manner. John felt a flicker of trepidation for the stranger seated beside him, the player he'd not yet encountered.

The man was well dressed—too well dressed for this neighbourhood and this bunch of coves. His broad shoulders nicely filled out his blue velvet coat, his waistcoat was silk, and the pristine white lace at his throat moved convulsively as he swallowed. It would not remain pristine for long, John judged, the way the man tugged at it with a nervous finger as though he found it hard to catch his breath. He had not worn a wig and pearls of sweat beaded his hairline under soft-looking, slightly receding brown hair. His hands jumped and fidgeted like birds yearning to take flight. He caught John looking at them and put them in his lap, grimacing, mouth drawn down on one side. He appeared to have no front at all, no ability to bluff. He would be slaughtered within the hour—what in hell was he doing here?

"John Sheppard," John offered, bowing his head politely. His neighbour's eyes widened; they were an unusual shade of slate blue, rather lovely. "And you are?" John prompted, raising an eyebrow.

The man gaped at him for a second, then recollected his manners. "Doctor Rodney McKay," he managed finally. "I, ah . . .  do you come here often?" He immediately looked distressed and bit his lip.

"Not so very often, doctor," John replied, concealing amusement. "Only when necessity dictates."

"Ah yes, yes indeed. Necessity, very true," McKay said, nodding furiously. He would do himself an injury if he did not desist. "I am in a like state, sadly."

"You are a medical man?" enquired John, wondering what dire need had forced McKay to place himself so at risk. McKay did not look like a surgeon or physician. They tended to wear black, the better to conceal unsavoury stains.

"Good lord, no!" McKay looked appalled. "I am no quack dealing in potions and humors. I am a man of science, sir. The motions of the spheres are my study, not of the bowels!"

"I do beg your pardon," John said, suppressing a grin with difficulty. McKay was entertaining; it was a pity he would be fleeced and most likely set upon and robbed before the night was out. John found the thought oddly unpleasant. He owed McKay nothing—they were strangers and John had his own needs tonight. His duty was to his ship and crew and to fulfil it he must win McKay's cash. John frowned. Damn the man, making John pity him. They were adversaries, no matter that John could have found better uses for McKay's mobile hands than holding cards. But he must show no mercy—the others assembled here most certainly would not.

"And yourself, sir?" McKay looked expectant.

"Merely a humble sailor," John said, shrugging. Too humble of late, which was why he had been driven to seek out a game such as this. Captaining a merchantman was a hard trade with Europe's endless wars, France in turmoil under the guillotine, storms driving down from the North Sea, and navigation so uncertain. "My ship is the Pegasus, at anchor in the harbour."

"You own the vessel, sir?" McKay eyed him with interest.

John tilted his head modestly. He knew he did not look prosperous or richly dressed, preferring plain black broadcloth and leather, but his father was Viscount Sheppard and he'd been gently raised. That is, until the Viscount disowned John and cast him out after a furious argument. Were it not for an inheritance from his mother John would have been penniless. It had forced him to sign on as ship's crew at the age of seventeen, but at least that had taught him a seaman's skills and when he came into his own small fortune at twenty-one he'd had the knowledge as well as the means to set himself up as a merchant trader, plying the Channel between England and France, and sometimes further afield. America was where the most lucrative trade lay in these times, the new nation thirsting for goods to rebuild after wrenching free from mad King George's grasp in a bloody revolution. The long voyage across the Atlantic was too perilous, though, with the problem of longitude still unresolved.

John pulled himself out of his musings. "I have the good fortune to own her, aye."

"I should be most interested to make your further acquaintance," McKay said, and John almost jumped to feel his satin-shod foot press up against John's boot under the table. Interested indeed. He debated withdrawing his foot, but if McKay wanted to enliven the night with a flirtation, John was game. He tilted his head at McKay, half-smiled, and then Lavin called them to order.

The game commenced, each man with a stack of blunt at his elbow as a stake. All banter ceased, even Lavin executing his role as dealer without further chatter. As well he might—most of the gamers around the table would skewer him in a heartbeat. John watched the other players carefully and played a cautious game, folding on a queen and four rather than risk his cash.

Torrell had a tell, rubbing his ear when excited. John judged him overconfident—too used to being a big dog amidst curs. Radim was playing carefully, like John, as was McKay, and in the end Kolya took the round, his scarred face impassive as he pulled in his winnings. Torrell and Kenmore both broke twenty-one and Torrell scowled and called for more rum. Kenmore merely shrugged and looked bored.

They played on, McKay leaning forward, intent, doing better than John had feared. He lost, but only a little, sometimes breaking twenty-one, sometimes folding early. John won a hand, then Kenmore, and Kolya's brows drew in, his face darkening. The bets grew richer and John saw fresh beads of sweat on McKay's brow. His face did not give away as much as John had thought, being uniformly unhappy, his mouth a grim slash, lips white and compressed.

Kolya won, which eased the tension in the room to a degree, then Kenmore took a hand, then John, and the stakes increased again. John had made a small profit, enough for some repairs but not for the new bowsprit they needed. Should he go all in and risk what he had? He realised suddenly he'd been following McKay's lead all unknowing, guided by the smallest of tells—a quiver in McKay's foot where it was pressed against his own under the table. Whenever he felt that, he folded, as did McKay, and in short order either Kenmore or Kolya took the round. Radim was likely Kolya's patsy, and Torrell was in his cups, playing sloppily and losing freely.

John wondered how McKay knew when the most dangerous players were like to win, then realised with a cold certainty that he must be counting cards. He glanced at McKay briefly, seeing the man's pale face set in a mask of concentration. Why had McKay set his foot against John's? To warn him? What had possessed him to count cards in _this_ company? Kolya, Radim and Kenmore were no fools; they were bound to twig at some point. Then John would be suspect, sitting right by McKay as he was, and he had no defence—he _was_ complicit, even if he had not known what was, quite literally, afoot until a moment ago.

John was more skilled at masks than McKay—a necessity, growing up around the Viscount—so he knew his face had not given him away. This could not go on though or McKay was a dead man, and most probably John as well. Damn the man! Why had he drawn John into his scheme?

The night drew to a close, Torrell snoring drunkenly in a corner, cleaned out, and Radim also throwing it in, but staying to watch and drink. The tension ratcheted, shadows growing deeper as the candles burned low, and McKay made his move. He took a round with a clean vingt-et-un, then another, while Kolya, visibly furious, unwisely demanded an extra card and lost his stake. Lavin made placatory noises, but Kolya lurched to his feet, leaning threateningly across the table.

"You, sir, are cheating!"

McKay swallowed, edging back. "I am doing no such thing," he protested, not very convincingly.

"If I did not think it impossible, I'd say you'd been counting cards, sir," Kenmore drawled, clearly trying to incite Kolya to violence.

McKay leaned in, his eyes glittering. Damn, he'd had more liquor than John had thought. "Just because my towering intellect far outmatches your feeble wits, you assume I am deceiving you," McKay snapped. He opened his mouth to dig his grave deeper. "Well, I–"

John stood and hauled McKay to his feet. "Time to end this night's play, sirs, and my thanks for the game." He grabbed McKay's winnings and stuffed them in the pocket of his velvet coat. Snatching his own small pile of bills, he jerked McKay toward the door.

"Hold!" growled Kolya. "You're in this together, you devils. Todd, stop them!" He waved at his minion, who uncoiled from his chair, grinning through uneven teeth and advancing upon them. He was monstrously tall.

John thrust McKay behind him, pulled out his pistol, and menaced Kolya's brute, dragging McKay to the door and backing out, covering all the occupants of the room with his gun. Lavin gave a shriek and dove under the table. Kolya went for a pistol of his own, but John put a warning shot into the wall beside him and drew his second firearm. He pushed McKay down the stairs none too gently, pistol trained upward in case Kolya or his man burst forth. Then, shoving the gun back through his belt, he hustled McKay outside and down the alley to a dark recess by the alehouse.

"Unhand me!" McKay said breathlessly, pulling free.

"What were you thinking, cheating Kolya? Do you not know he would kill you in a heartbeat?" John glared at McKay, who was dishevelled and wild-eyed.

"I am sure that is a gross exaggeration," McKay said loftily, trying to catch his breath. "I won fairly, and–"

"You were counting _cards_ , damn you!"

McKay's eyes narrowed. "You cannot prove it, nor were you slow to profit, as I recall." His chin went up truculently.

John glanced around. "We cannot stay here. Kolya will be on the rampage soon enough."

McKay licked his lips nervously. "I will find my way to my lodgings, never fear. Drapers Lane is not so very far."

"Are you mad?" John frowned at him. "You must come with me and my crew, or surely Kolya will carve you into pieces before you have crossed the high road."

McKay drew himself up. "Sirrah, I thank you for extracting me from that thieves' den, but I am well able to make my own way home. Besides, why should I trust you? Perchance you are not a merchant but a buccaneer? I give you good night." He turned and hurried off across the cobbles.

Damn and blast McKay for a fool, but John could not leave him to his well-deserved fate. He looked uneasily up and down the alley, imagining Kolya's louts in every shadow, then pushed into the alehouse to collect the others.

~ooOoo~

Heart pounding, Rodney scurried from shadow to shadow, making his way towards Draper's Lane by a circuitous route. He knew full well how unwise this whole enterprise had been, but he'd been desperate for money to finish his chronometer—or, to be precise, to finish the Patented McKay Marine Chronometer, Solution to the Problem of Longitude. He could see the words in his mind's eye, finely engraved on a silver plate affixed to the polished wooden case. And inside, the gleaming brass invention on which he had laboured for so many months, nay, years if he counted the imperfect precursors.

He paused in an alcove to catch his laboured breath. Alone now and frightened, not blustering at Sheppard, he could admit how badly he'd underestimated the risks of his ploy. That rapier-like man, Kenmore and the villain Kolya, not to mention his monstrous servant—they were far more terrifying than Rodney had expected. How he'd kept his wits and not passed out like some chit with the vapours he had no idea, but a madness had taken hold of him. Rodney grimaced: he was steering well clear of brandy from now on—he already had a headache, pounding behind his eyes.

He trudged on, only a short distance from home now, where surely he would be safe. He had not, of course, given that fool Lavin his real name, styling himself Mr Meredith instead. The town was large and he kept to himself, intent on his inventions. They would never track him down if he lay low for a time until it all subsided.

Clutching that hope to his heart, Rodney rounded a corner only to be snatched off his feet, a huge arm like an iron bar across his throat. He struggled and tried to scream, but no sound came out.

"I have him." The voice was deep and strangely sibilant.

Kolya loomed darkly between Rodney and the flickering streetlamp that was the sole illumination in this side-alley. "So you do. Mr Meredith, I presume? Although I'd lay odds that's not your true name. Quite the merry dance you have led us tonight." Two more white-haired thugs flanked him, their faces pallid in the dim light. "Search him," Koyla ordered, which at least caused the chokehold on his throat to be loosed.

Rodney fell to his knees, wheezing and retching, gasping for air. The lout cursed and bent, grabbing the back of his coat, ripping the soft velvet as he dragged Rodney upright. Then ragged fingernails like talons were clawing at his pockets, finding naught. Rodney was not a complete fool and he'd transferred his winnings to a money belt under his vest at least two alleys back. It would not deter them long, though.

"Wait, wait!" Rodney cried, knowing he was merely delaying the inevitable, but forced by his fear to do something, anything to forestall his death; he had no illusions about Kolya's intentions now he had caught Rodney. "I can offer you recompense! I am a man of learning! I can make–"

"Quiet, your bleating offends me," growled Kolya. "First we take your blunt, or rather _mine_ which you stole from me, devil rot you, then we take your worthless life!"

Rodney moaned in fear, appalled by the threat of violence but even more by the terrible waste. That he, the foremost natural philosopher in England—admittedly largely in his own estimation, but he knew the calibre of his peers and they were no match for him—should meet his end in a filthy back-alley at the hands of this villain, it did not bear–

A flurry of movement, and the henchmen behind Kolya went down with near-identical grunts to lie tangled in a dark heap. Kolya spun, but Rodney was aware only of being tossed about by the creature still holding him, then being flung to the cobbles, badly bruising his knees, as his captor fought off another attacker.

He peered up, seeing a small, dark-haired woman calmly facing off against Kolya's looming brute. He lurched at her and she swept his legs out from under him with some sort of sticks, her movements feral and exact as she cracked the man over the skull repeatedly until he stopped moving. She turned and peered past Rodney, then called, "John!", alarm in her voice. Rodney turned too, to see Sheppard pivot aside from Kolya's bulk and fall back, clutching his side. Kolya backed away, snarling and brandishing a long dagger as the woman and two other figures, taller and armed with swords, moved to protect both Rodney and Sheppard, who now lay unmoving.

"Do not think this ends the matter," Kolya spat at Rodney, then turned, slipping into the night, catlike quiet for such a large man.

"Oh, John!" The woman was bent over Sheppard's still form, pulling his coat aside and sucking in her breath with concern.

Rodney's heart clenched. He had not meant for it to end like this, in blood and violence. Sheppard had rescued him, and this must be the crew he had mentioned. He had ill-repaid Sheppard's attempts to aid him. "Is he, is he dead?" Rodney asked anxiously.

The woman glanced up from where they were clustered around their fallen friend. "It is a deep wound, but I think not." She pulled Sheppard's neck-cloth free and pressed it to his side. "Not yet."

A fair-haired woman dressed most inappropriately in man's garb glared at Rodney. "No thanks to you," she said angrily.

"Recriminations will not serve our purpose," the dark woman said sternly. She looked up at a huge man with very strange hair, all in thick felted ringlets, who knelt there beside her. "We must get him to a surgeon, Ronon. He has lost much blood." She bit her lip. "If only we had a ship's doctor, but–"

"Kavanagh was not fit to pull teeth, let alone staunch wounds," the blonde woman put in. "If he had not jumped ship in Calais I would have fed him to the sharks."

"Please, I know someone, a doctor, a surgeon," Rodney said, breaking into this time-wasting nonsense.  "He lives above me, at my lodgings. I mistrust all medical charlatans, but he is the most competent of a bad bunch. He will help if I ask him, and it seems I have much to repay, to you and to Sheppard. Let me help. Sheppard can rest in my own bed while Beckett tends him."

The tall man, thankfully disinclined to waste words, lifted Sheppard's body gently and rose, seeming not to notice the dead weight he carried. "Where?"

"It is not far." Rodney scrambled to his feet and led them along the alley, turning into Drapers Lane and hurrying along to his house. He fumbled for his key then ushered them in, snatching up a lamp from the hall table and lighting it, then showing the large man, Ronon, through to his bedroom in the back. They all trooped in and Ronon set Sheppard carefully on the admittedly unmade bed, but who had time for such niceties? Blood immediately soaked the bed linens and Rodney steadied himself with a hand on the dresser, feeling nauseated. "I will get Dr Beckett. I will be but a moment."

"Laura, go with him," said the small dark haired woman, once more pressing firmly on Sheppard's wound. She seemed the leader of their band, with Sheppard insensible.

To Rodney's dismay, the angry blonde amazon gestured impatiently at him, and he hurried out, collected a candle, then ran up the hallway stairs and knocked agitatedly on Beckett's door.

"Hau'd yer horses, wi' ye," came a sleepy, annoyed voice from within. Thank God: Beckett was at home.

The door was dragged open to reveal the yawning Scot in nightgown and cap, a candlestick in hand. "Rodney?" he asked bemusedly. Then he blinked, eyes widening. "But who . . . ?"

"Laura Cadman," the amazon said. "Come, we need your help."

"What . . . ?" Beckett blinked at her, then at Rodney.

"A man is hurt downstairs, Carson," Rodney put in quickly. "He was set upon by rogues and is badly wounded. There is," Rodney swallowed, "copious blood."

Beckett blinked again, seeming only now to realise he was in night attire. He glanced at the woman, flushed, and backed off. "Aye, right. I'll just . . . my instruments."

Rodney made shooing motions. "Hurry up, Carson. You have to help Sheppard. He saved my life tonight."

Clad in a blue brocade robe but still in slippered feet, Beckett was soon ruling the sickroom. He ordered fresh linens for bandaging brought and water boiled.

"This is no time for your interminable tea!" Rodney shouted.

"Tis to lessen the risk of mortification, ye damned eejit!" Beckett retorted. He pronounced Sheppard's injury not likely to be fatal and tutted over a head wound no-one had noticed that had been caused when Sheppard fell to the cobbles. Then he sewed the deep laceration in Sheppard's side shut with stitches worthy of a nun's sampler, after using half of Rodney's best brandy to wash both the wounds. Well, Rodney had sworn off brandy, anyway.

"He's lost a deal o' blood," Beckett said finally, blowing out a breath and wiping his forehead on his sleeve. "He needs absolute rest, and fluids once he wakes. Broth and porter and such, to fortify him."

"Can we not take him back to our ship?" asked the small woman, whose name was Teyla, an odd name, but they were a strange collection, Rodney thought. Teyla and the large man, Ronon, were clearly foreigners, perhaps from an exotic land such as Africa. The amazon, Cadman, had a northern accent, but was so improperly dressed in men's clothes and boots that Rodney did not know where to rest his eyes. Beckett, he noted sourly, had no such difficulty, gazing at her in open admiration like a love-struck sheep.

"I dinnae recommend moving him," Beckett said firmly. "He must stay here till he's stronger." He turned to Rodney, raising an eyebrow. "I gather you're indebted to him, Rodney, so loaning the man your bed is the least you can do." Rodney nodded, eyeing the heap of bloodstained linen in the corner. His laundry bill would be punishingly steep this month.

Teyla frowned. "We will keep watch then, until he can return to us."

To Rodney's dismay and Beckett's ill-concealed delight, the woman, Cadman, stood the first watch. Beckett immediately pronounced it necessary that he remain at Sheppard's bedside as well, and invaded Rodney's kitchen to brew a large pot of his strong black tea.

Rodney retired to the living room in disgust and made an uncomfortable bed on the divan, a cushion under his head. Despite his bruises, scraped knees and the terrors of the evening, he fell asleep immediately, not even stirring when his cat, Sir Isaac, slipped in through a window and curled up against him.

~ooOoo~

John woke to a guttering candle and Ronon's familiar silhouette. The grey light of dawn filtered in through the panes of a dirty window. "Sweet Jesus, tell me I did not get soused at the card game," John groaned, shutting his eyes against the throbbing headache emanating from the back of his head. He would have been robbed blind had he indulged with the likes of Kolya and Kenmore present.

His eyes shot open as memory returned. "No, wait, there was a fight. With . . . Kolya? And his louts." He peered around, suddenly realising this was not the captain's cabin on the Pegasus. "Where the hell are we?"

Ronon stood and came over. "McKay's. You hit your head after Kolya knifed you."

"What?" John tried to sit up, only to be felled by a red hot wave of pain from his side. "Ow, fuck, what in damnation?"

Ronon put a hand on his shoulder and pressed him flat. "No moving. Beckett said."

"Who?" There were times John wished Ronon were slightly less laconic.

"Beckett—he's a surgeon. Lives upstairs. I told him to get some sleep a while back."

"We're in a surgeon's house?"

"Lodgings. He rooms up there, McKay's down here."

McKay. The man at the game. He had been card counting and had drawn John into his devil's scrape. John rubbed his aching brow. It appeared Kolya had exacted revenge after all. "Is McKay safe?"

"Aye—asleep in the front room. We got there in time." Ronon brightened. "Trounced Kolya's gallows coves, as well."

"Those pale brutes?" Ronon leapt at any chance to fight them. John moved a little and groaned as pain jolted through him again.

"Be still, damn you," Ronon growled.

"Easy for you to say," John grumbled. "Your bladder is not proclaiming itself fit to burst." To his dismay that admission led to a mortifying interlude with Ronon helping him roll on his side and piss into a china urinal. When he settled back again he was exhausted and near-weeping with pain.

Ronon frowned down at him. "I'm getting Beckett," he said. "McKay can watch you." He left the room. John breathed shallowly and fought down nausea.

After long moments the agony subsided and John opened his eyes. McKay was standing in the doorway, hair dishevelled. "Ah, good morning," he said warily. He came forward as though afraid John would leap from the bed and trounce him for being a damn fool.

"I'll not bite you," John muttered sullenly. "I can barely move."

"Yes, right. Sorry? Sorry," McKay said, hands fluttering nervously. He drew in a breath and said in a rush, "I am most grateful for your assistance and deeply regret the injuries you sustained." Then he reached under his crumpled vest—he looked to have slept in his clothes—and undid a money belt, laying it on the bed. "Please, take this as a small recompense."

John closed his eyes. "Christ, McKay, I'm not after your ill-gotten gains." He opened one eye. "How much did you win, anyway?"

"Oh, I . . ." McKay looked flustered. "I have not counted it, but if it is insufficient . . ." he looked rather wildly around the room. "There must be something I can sell."

"Do men of science make a rich living, then?" John knew they did not, but McKay was so easy to bait, it was irresistible.

Predictably, McKay's mouth turned down, and he plonked himself into a low armchair beside the bed, leaning forward, elbows on knees. "No, damn it, for the world is filled with bacon-brained idiots who would not know true genius if it fired a canon at them."

John raised his eyebrows. "And do you? Fire canons?"

"Psssht! Mere chemistry. No, I study the heavens, and invent clockwork devices. Only Zelenka of Bohemia can match me in the construction of cunning machines, but he wastes his talent on music boxes and the like, for the crowned heads of Europe." McKay waved a dismissive hand.

"There is a market for your inventions?" John asked, suspecting otherwise.

McKay's face fell. "Not as yet." He brightened. "But there will be, once the Board of Longitude sees my designs. I am sure to win the prize."

John chewed this over, but then Beckett arrived and shooed McKay away, and there was tutting and re-bandaging and a draft of bitter opium mixed with brandy. Ronon returned from a nearby tavern with a pot of beef stew, and Beckett bullied John into drinking a cup of the liquor. He slept, the opium bringing strange dreams in which Kolya's henchmen had far too many teeth and lizard-like eyes. Jolting awake from one such nightmare, he found McKay back in the armchair by the bed, stroking a calico cat which dozed on his lap.

"Thirsty," John croaked, his mouth dry.

McKay started and the cat jumped down, looking affronted. "Oh, you're awake. Yes, of course. Beckett says you may drink ale or weak tea—although that is likely his own strange Scottish prejudice. I vastly prefer coffee, but he says you are not to be stimulated."

"Tea," John rasped.

McKay nodded and got a tankard from the dresser, inserting a V-angled metal rod into it. John squinted at it, bemused, seeing it was a narrow tube. "It is the McKay Patented Invalid's Straw," McKay said obscurely. He pressed the end to John's lips. "Suck. I put a little sugar in it." John sucked, and was rewarded with a pleasantly sweetened mouthful. He swallowed. "Good," he said, proceeding to drink the rest. John rested as McKay removed the tankard, watching him. "Clever," he said, remembering the last time he'd been wounded and had spilled ale all over himself from an open cup. That straw would be damned useful on a rolling ship, providing one managed not to impale a nostril.

"Yes." McKay shrugged. "Sadly, the world prefers cheap rye-grass straws which disintegrate in short order, rather than a quality device to last a lifetime. An inventor's life is filled with disappointments."

"You said you plan to win the . . . prize?" John tried to collect his thoughts through the fading haze of opium. "From the Board?"

"Ah!" McKay's face lit up. "Yes, for my Marine Chronometer. To solve the Problem of Longitude."

"Truly?" John did not know whether to believe him—McKay had not proved entirely trustworthy in their brief acquaintance and was a gabster, inclined to pitch the gammon.  But if it were true . . . a perfectly accurate chronometer capable of withstanding the rigours of shipboard life was the dream of all mariners. It would open the seven seas, make crossing the Atlantic and Pacific a matter of mathematics, not of long detours following ocean currents while the ship's crew died of scurvy.

McKay beamed. "Indeed. My chronometer is far superior to that made by Harrison, a mere carpenter. He has no more grasp of the physics involved than a goose. Not that he has claimed the prize yet—it remains disputed. All I require is a practical demonstration to prove the accuracy of my vastly more accurate device. 'Tis the reason I risked life and limb at that ill-fated game. I need funding for a long sea voyage. I must charter a ship."

"I have a ship," John blurted, opium loosening his tongue.

McKay's mouth twisted in a crooked grin. "So you claimed when we met, and I have met a number of your crew. He glanced up at the ceiling. "The amazon, Cadman, is presently being entertained by Beckett on some pretext, so she entrusted your care to me for a time."

"She is a fine sailor," John noted, raising his eyebrows only a little.

McKay snorted. "I fear the good doctor is quite enamoured." He gestured at the money belt. "If you'll not take my nefariously won coin in recompense for injury, perhaps we can come to another arrangement?"

"How long a voyage?" John asked, trying not to let himself grasp at false hope. Marine chronometers were the stuff of legend, Harrison's devices costing a third as much as a ship itself, and being vanishingly rare. "Would America suffice as a destination?"

"It would! Harrison tested his chronometer between Plymouth and Jamaica, but Boston would do very well."

John raised his right arm, favouring his wounded left side. "I must talk with my crew, but once I am recovered, you have yourself a deal, McKay."

McKay leaned in and shook his hand vigorously. "You wish to travel there, rebels and all?"

John shrugged one shoulder. "The trade with America is lucrative and I am something of a rebel at heart myself." He released McKay's warm hand reluctantly. "Europe's wars and the abundance of military vessels in the Channel and North Sea have made it more difficult for a merchant to . . . avoid punishing custom duties." He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

McKay snorted. "I took you for an amiable rogue from the first, Captain Sheppard. I take it you ship some luxuries that do not find their way onto the manifest."

John waved his hand airily. "You could say so. I have also had a  . . . falling out with my father, an influential bastard. My lines of credit on this side of the Atlantic are, as a result, limited, hence my presence at the game." He looked at the dresser. "Is there more tea?"

McKay refilled the tankard and helped him drink. "It seems we may do each other a service then, Sheppard." He gestured at his winnings. "Will this suffice to repair and provision your ship?"

"Very much so. And we will carry you back to London to claim your prize, once we have filled our holds with cargo in Boston."

"It is agreed, then," said McKay. "Although I confess to some trepidation about facing so long a voyage."

"You'll be in safe hands, that I promise," John assured him, feeling an odd surge of protectiveness despite being weak as water and in McKay's care.

McKay regarded him with a complicated quirk of the lips. "Yes, I believe I will be."

~ooOoo~

The next days saw Sheppard gradually less wracked by pain and able to sit up and then leave his bed for short forays, to access the privy and make his own tea. His crew continued to stand watch at Rodney's lodgings, interpreting that duty as they saw fit. Cadman claimed she could watch just as well from an upper window and spent most of her time in Beckett's apartments, but Rodney knew full well that Beckett's bed overlooked no vantage points. Or none that bore thinking about.

Ronon had developed a fondness for Sir Isaac, often bringing him sardines from the dockside market. Ronon and Sir Isaac spent considerable time napping together on Rodney's divan or hunting rodents in the scullery. Rodney hoped any mice captured were eaten only by Sir Isaac, but he was not entirely sure and did not dare ask Ronon. He shared his concerns with Sheppard one evening, which proved unwise as it caused Sheppard to break into honking  brays of laughter, leaving him white and sweating and bringing the wrath of Beckett down on them both.

Teyla, for her part, was given to periods of quiet meditation, alternating with the performance of stylised dances in Rodney's living room, his meagre furniture pushed back to make space for her to whirl her sticks, balancing with impressive precision. Had Rodney attempted any such manoeuvres his landlord's china would have been a swift casualty. Teyla also brought Sheppard news of the Pegasus, discussing the progress of repairs to bowsprit and rigging and the purchase of stores. Sheppard waited eagerly for her news, and Rodney could see how he chafed to be stranded shoreside, away from his beloved ship. The first mate, a dark-haired fellow called Lorne, also took watches and brought invoices for Sheppard to sign, and sometimes a young African seaman improbably named Aiden turned up, bringing a pipe and playing merry jigs.

All in all, with the crew sometimes overlapping their watches to socialise in Rodney's front room and Beckett and Cadman's shenanigans, Rodney kept well clear, preferring to play chess with Sheppard who proved a surprisingly adept opponent, and to finish calibrating and boxing his chronometer in the whitewashed workshop that opened off the bedroom. It had larger windows, good light being essential to fine workmanship, and once Sheppard's headache had subsided and his healing wound allowed some exercise he often limped through to sit on the back stairs, drinking tea and telling Rodney tall tales of past voyages, while Rodney snorted in disbelief and argued with his wilder flights of fancy, waving pliers and tiny screwdrivers in emphasis.

Rodney was not entirely sure how it had happened, but after the first day, Sheppard's crew commandeered the divan in the front room when on watch, leaving Rodney no choice but to bunk in with Sheppard. He half-suspected Sheppard might have arranged this secretly with Teyla, using some arcane eyebrow waggling code known only to his shipmates. It mattered not; the bed was wide enough for him to be careful of Sheppard's injuries, and Rodney preferred sleeping on the right, anyway.

And what if he sometimes awoke to find Sheppard's dark, messy head on his shoulder, his warm bulk pressed to Rodney's side? Having been the cause of Sheppard's injury, Rodney surely owed him this small, comforting liberty. Besides, Rodney found he liked the closeness, liked Sheppard's warmth and smell and the soft grunts and half-words he muttered in sleep. He felt a pang, knowing this was a temporary measure and that once they were on board the Pegasus Sheppard would vanish into the captain's cabin while Rodney would be relegated to a cramped space well below decks, possibly a mere hammock. Such were the exigencies of scientific endeavour.

The days passed, and Rodney became more and more nervous about this madcap plan he had embroiled himself in—had, in large part, instigated. Take ship to America? Lunacy—such voyages were fraught with perils. There would no doubt be icebergs, hurricanes, terrifying sea monsters like sharks and whales. And he could not even swim!

Sheppard was small comfort. He laughed and teased Rodney, saying the Pegasus had weathered many a gale—thus confirming these were commonplace, which was _not_ reassuring. "Over half the crew cannot swim, McKay," he said cajolingly. "'Tis not very common among sailors, you know."

"The fact that most of your motley crew have not learned to swim despite all their time afloat is not the argument for their common sense and competence you think it to be," Rodney retorted, sitting stiffly on his side of the bed with his arms crossed. They were preparing for sleep and had shut the door to the front room where Ronon was snoring on the divan with Sir Isaac nestled under his chin, kneading his great mass of hair in seeming bliss.

Sheppard had taken to wearing one of Rodney's old nightshirts to bed. He slipped in under the covers and stretched carefully, not disturbing his wounded side too much yet managing to show off his muscles and expose quantities of dark chest hair. Rodney watched covertly yet avidly from the corner of his eye.

"I told you—you'll be safe with me," Sheppard said, sounding a little hurt, and when Rodney glanced at him the man was well nigh pouting. Rodney flushed and looked away again.

"I will most like develop scurvy, sunstroke, yellow fever and be horribly beset by mal de mer," he insisted.

"Well, the latter, perhaps a little," Sheppard said, "but you'll find your sea-legs soon enough." He put a hand on Rodney's back, resting it there gently as though calming a spooked horse. "But we'll take fruit with us to stave off scurvy, and you'll not encounter yellow fever mid-Atlantic, that I promise."

"I cannot eat lemons or oranges," Rodney confessed miserably. "They are a poison to me, causing asthmatic paroxysms that stop my breathing."

"Huh," Sheppard said thoughtfully. "I had a captain once with a similar condition. He swore by strawberries, and guavas when the ship was in tropical climes. We will stock up with strawberry conserve and you'll be right as rain." He patted the bed. "Now get in and rest that fretting brain of yours."

Rodney sighed but got in beside him, turning to lie on his side, facing Sheppard. "I cannot help it if my brain worries away at problems. 'Tis the price of genius."

"I see that," Sheppard said mildly. He shifted a little closer and leaned in conspiratorially. "Do you think we might calm your giant brain with a distraction?"

"What sort of distraction?" Rodney asked. Perhaps Sheppard had another tall tale for him?

Sheppard put his hand on the front of Rodney's nightshirt and pulled him in further, brushing his lips across Rodney's. "This sort," he said, his voice husky.

"Oh, oh, you want . . . ?" Rodney trailed off as Sheppard kissed him again, more firmly.

"Yes, I want," Sheppard murmured against his mouth. "I have wanted for some time, but I was too weak to press my suit."

"Ohhh," Rodney moaned, as his mouth opened and Sheppard's tongue caressed his "Oh dear God, press away!"

Sheppard laughed, low and dark. "I must not over-exert myself or Beckett will give me a tongue-lashing. Come, press your own suit. I shall lie here like a helpless maid while you ravish me."

"If you are a maid, sir, I'm a monkey's uncle," Rodney said, but he needed no second invitation. He slid his hand into the hair on Sheppard's chest then down over the threadbare nightshirt to stroke a nipple. Sheppard sucked in a gasp and pushed up into his touch. "Careful, now," Rodney said. "Can you put your hands above your head?"

"Aye, if I do it slow," Sheppard said, and did so. "Like this?" He rested his hands on the pillows. His face in the flickering candlelight was flushed, his hair even more in disarray than usual.

"Here, take hold of these," Rodney said, fitting Sheppard's hands around the carved dowels of the headboard.

Sheppard stared up at him, arms above his head, his eyes almost black. "I am to stay like this?" he asked, sounding almost hopeful.

Rodney nodded. He could not keep himself from touching Sheppard's right palm, running his finger down his wrist, then over his arm where the shirt had fallen back to expose a dark tattoo—inky coils of serpents, rolling waves, an anchor and a ship at sea. His fingers slid down Sheppard's chest to rest on his rib-cage. Sheppard's eyes fluttered shut and he sucked in air through his nostrils.

"It will stop you forgetting your injured side and waving your left arm about," Rodney explained, playing with Sheppard's nipple. In truth he knew it would not immobilise Sheppard and that he would have to be vigilant about the need to remain still. Oddly, Sheppard seemed to like it when he was masterful.

"I am going to sit astride you, the better to stop you flinging yourself about and bringing Beckett down upon us," he said. Sheppard nodded almost desperately, and Rodney climbed atop him. The bedcovers fell back, but the night was warm and Sheppard burned beneath him like a furnace.

"Kiss me," Sheppard begged, and Rodney leaned forward and met his lips, and oh, that brought parts of them into contact through the thin lawn of the nightshirts. Parts that felt delicious as they rubbed and moved together. Rodney pressed his suit most ardently, his tongue in Sheppard's hot mouth.

"Please," Sheppard moaned, as they broke off the kiss to gasp for air. He made as though to raise his legs and wrap them around Rodney, then grimaced and stiffened.

"Hold still, numbskull," Rodney growled. "You are a helpless maid, remember?"

Sheppard somehow managed to roll his eyes, dilated though they were. "Well, get on with the ravishing then, Rodney, before I die of old age."

"Yes, and angels shall dance on the head of a pin," muttered Rodney, but he lifted his nightshirt and Sheppard's as well, and got his hands on Sheppard's cock to stroke it. Sheppard's legs quivered under him and his back arched a little. "Careful," Rodney warned. "Merely lie back and let me work."

"I've done naught . . . but watch you work . . . _oh Christ that's good_ . . . these past few days," Sheppard gasped. "And after this, I'll not be able to see your hands . . . _Rodney, please_. . . see your hands without entertaining . . . sinful thoughts." He writhed a little, stretched out for Rodney's pleasure.

"None of that," Rodney said sharply. "Be still." He reached down and squeezed Sheppard's balls admonishingly. Sheppard drew in a sobbing breath then went limp all at once. As he did so his cock stiffened further in Rodney's hand. Interesting. Rodney gathered in both their members which made Sheppard pant, but he lay there letting Rodney do whatever he wanted, which was to stroke them both while pushing up the nightshirt further and leaning down to lick and suck at Sheppard's nipples.

It was slick between their bellies and after too short a time Rodney could feel pleasure building behind his balls, feel Sheppard's cock jump involuntarily in his hand as he stroked faster. He bent down and bit the spot where Sheppard's neck met his shoulder and Sheppard gave a strangled cry and jerked in his hand, warmth spilling between them. Rodney sat up, releasing Sheppard's still-twitching cock, and stared down at him, spread out, chest heaving, all golden in the candlelight, his chest hair damp with sweat. Another few frantic strokes and Rodney was cresting, head flung back as he spent himself on Sheppard's belly.

Sheppard let go of the headboard and rolled his shoulders. He brought his arms down carefully and rested his hands on Rodney's hips. "Consider me ravished," he said with a grin.

Rodney snorted. "Consider me thoroughly distracted," he said, leaning over the side of the bed to grab a discarded neck-cloth, using it to wipe Sheppard's stomach and cock then cleaning himself. He threw it aside and got carefully off Sheppard, taking care not to jostle him as he rearranged their attire. He pulled up the covers and settled in, his head on Sheppard's chest and a leg thrown over him.

Rodney yawned hugely. Sheppard yawned in response and in short order began to snore gently.  Rodney tried to muster his former panic about whales and sharks and shipwrecks, but he was too relaxed and filled with an unaccustomed warmth.

Just before falling asleep, he realised it was happiness.

~ooOoo~

The next morning Beckett removed John's sutures. He prodded and peered at John's healing wound and pronounced himself well satisfied. John let out a breath when the examination was done and Beckett had re-joined Laura in his rooms. He'd hoped Beckett would not roam further afield and see the tell-tale bruise Rodney had sucked onto his neck in the heat of passion. But if Beckett saw the mark, he made no comment.

"Not that he'd have a leg to stand on," Rodney said. "Given his dalliance with your amazon, Cadman."

John raised his eyebrows. "She's no amazon, she's from Carlisle. We surely cannot begrudge them their pleasures when we're playing the same game." He clumsily pulled his shirt back on, becoming stuck in the folds until Rodney, tutting, disentangled him. John kissed his nose in thanks, pleased to see Rodney blush like a schoolgirl. "Cadman's a good sort and an excellent fighter," he said. "She's in charge of our gunpowder stores. For the canons and firearms."

Rodney's mouth twisted down unhappily and he turned half away. "I had not thought my chronometer would be tested on a privateer vessel. Will the Board of Longitude even recognise our findings?"

"Come now," John said. He took Rodney by the arms, turning him back. "All vessels are armed for self-protection, and we are not privateers, merely gentleman smugglers, and then only in direst need. If we can access trade with the new American republic, we'll not need to avoid the customs men in future. There are no warrants against the Pegasus or myself as captain and both Lorne and I are trained in navigation, so our support of your findings will carry weight." He smiled, unable to resist riling Rodney. "Providing the results _do_ support your claims, that is."

Rodney's cheeks flushed and his eyes darkened. He leaned in, poking John in the chest. "Oh they will most certainly support my claims. This device is _decades_ beyond anything Harrison is capable of constructing. It will make history!"

John grinned. Damn, but Rodney was kissable when aroused by science. "And I look forward to helping you prove it," he said smoothly. "But for now, I prefer to prove how quickly I can make you lose your words." He ducked his head and kissed Rodney, who spluttered a little then opened to John very pleasingly.

So the day slid away, in bed and in Rodney's workshop, where Lorne pulled up a chair and went over the tally of stores and repairs, now virtually complete except for some splicing of lines and rigging which the crew could do once underway. He promised, straight-faced, to obtain a quantity of strawberries from the market for the cook to turn into preserves for Rodney, seeming quite unruffled by the request.

That night Rodney slicked himself with oil and rode John, pinning his arms to the pillows and stopping his mouth with fervid kisses until they were both blown beyond words, lost in each other.

After, as they lay entwined, Rodney said, "I shall miss this. You'll be off back to the ship soon."

"Aye, tomorrow," John said, for efficient as Lorne was and delicious as these nights were with Rodney, he could not further delay a full inspection and part of him ached for the shift of the deck underfoot and the sound of waves lapping against the hull. "But we'll sail within the week, so you'll not miss me long."

"I know you miss your ship, and the crew are like family to you," Rodney said, sounding wistful.

"They are," John agreed. "Which is for the best, as my relatives have disowned me." He stroked Rodney's back. "Have you family of your own?"

"Only a sister, Jeannie," Rodney said, sighing. "Our parents are dead. She's married and comfortably domestic with husband and child. We had an argument and she lives in Bath, so we are somewhat estranged."

"Well, you are not alone now," John said, holding him tighter.

"It will be different on the ship," Rodney said in a small voice.

"True, but we'll still have time together," John promised. "The captain's cabin has a large enough bed. 'Tis big enough for two."

Rodney twisted and peered up at him. "I can share it with you?"

"Where did you think you would be quartered?" John asked, ruffling his hair. "We're not a passenger vessel, Rodney; cabin space is limited. Besides, the chronometer is a valuable device and will be kept in my cabin with the other instruments of navigation. I'd assumed you'd want to be housed with your invention."

"Well, yes, indeed," Rodney said, looking brighter. "That, that sounds very satisfactory. Thank you." He frowned. "But will your crew not . . . " He flushed and waved a hand.

"What? Object to your presence in my bed?" John laughed. "We are not so prudish a company as that. It matters not to me who they consort with, and they pay me the same courtesy."

That calmed Rodney sufficiently and soon he was sleeping. John lay awake a while longer, thinking of the ocean, of swift currents and wheeling gulls, of the feeling of flight the crow's nest always gave him and of dolphins leaping before the prow. He thought of running before a sprightly breeze with the spray of their passage salting his lips, and of nights on watch with the sky a lake of stars.

He finally slept, a smile on his lips.

~ooOoo~

Dawn had barely lightened the eastern sky when Ronon and Teyla banged on the door. John extricated himself from the bed and got to the door just as Cadman clattered down the stairs, her clothes in disarray. John felt unprepared for such urgency himself, in nothing but Rodney's old nightshirt. They gathered in the front room, Rodney emerging wide-eyed and spike-haired from the bedroom.

"What is it?" John asked, seeing Ronon and Teyla's grim faces.  

"Kolya," Ronon said angrily. "He finally tracked McKay down. He'll be here within the hour."

John cursed. "Damn the man. With his usual gang of pasty-faced bully-boys?"

"Aye," Ronon said. He cracked his knuckles and grinned fiercely.

Teyla put a hand on his arm. "We talked of this, Ronon. You cannot take them all in a fight."

"Might do," Ronon said truculently.

Teyla came close to rolling her eyes. "It would not be safe for Dr McKay, or for Dr Beckett, for that matter. Kolya has been known to burn the homes of those who cross him."  

"Arson?" Rodney squeaked. "But my research, all my notes!"

"I am more worried for your person," John said, frowning at him. He looked back at Ronon. "Teyla has the right of it. We cannot take him if he comes in force."

"What, then?" asked Beckett, who had followed Cadman down the stairs, hair askew and his gown clutched around him.

"We must bring forward our departure date," John said. "All is very nearly ready, yes?" Teyla nodded. "Then we'll take ship, and leave the confrontation with Kolya to another day."

"Or avoid it entirely, if we are wise," Teyla said, ignoring Ronon's disappointed scowl.

John turned to Rodney. "Pack all you need – your research notes, pens and ink, toolkit, the chronometer itself. Take it all, and some clothing. Teyla will help you." He looked down at himself. "And I shall find some goddamned breeches."

Rodney turned towards Beckett. "But Carson, what will you do?"

Beckett shrugged. "I cannae leave Laura to face these bampots alone, and the ship needs a doctor. I'm coming wi' ye." Cadman grinned and pulled him back up the stairs.

"Packing!" Rodney called after them. "No dilly-dallying!"

"The same goes for you, Rodney," John said, and began looking for his clothing. Teyla helped Rodney unearth two carpet bags and took him through to the workshop.

"Won't be safe to go out the front way," Ronon said. "Not if you won't let me fight them. Too far to the ship."

John glanced up from where he'd lain back on the bed, one leg in his britches, trying not to strain his still-tender wound. "Is there a back way? Knowing you, you've explored the perimeter."

"Roof's the best."

John grimaced. "With McKay and Beckett, and me not fully able yet?"

"Aye. There's a good sized window and an easy enough way through the rooftops. Checked it a few days ago. We can break into an empty house three streets over in the warehouse district through another window. Then down the stairs and it's not far to the docks."

"A good plan," John said, nodding and getting his left leg into the breeches with a wince. "You have it all thought through."

Ronon raised an eyebrow. "Someone had to with you and Cadman thinking with your dicks."

"Go help McKay with his tools," John said, narrowing his eyes. "Or I'll tell her you said that and your own manhood will be in peril." Ronon grinned and strode off.

There was a great deal of complaining as they got Rodney and Beckett out the upstairs window and across the sloping shingles. Ronon had his greatcoat buttoned close and was hoisting  two of the bags, stepping out nimbly, while Teyla and Cadman managed a bag each. John cursed his lingering weakness—he and the doctors needed both hands to brace themselves and balance. The escape was not as simple as Ronon had painted it, but after a sweaty, dirty half hour they were at their destination and Ronon was levering up another window.  The old, disused house was musty and filled with rustling and rat droppings but the stairs were largely sound, and Ronon soon dealt with the lock to let them out onto a narrow street that led towards the seafront. It was still early and the docks were obscured by fog.

"Almost there," John said encouragingly, for Rodney was looking fearfully at the drifting mist. Cadman and Teyla went ahead, with John, Beckett and Rodney next, and Ronon guarding their rear.

~ooOoo~

Rodney was grimy from the soot of their passage through the chimneys, his mood none too cheerful as he picked his way down the stairs of the abandoned house, avoiding a few broken treads. Had he brought everything he needed from the workshop before they left? Of course not, but he had packed all Ronon could reasonably carry. Why they must lurch from crisis to crisis he had no idea, but it seemed this was his life, now.  

Ronon dropped the larger bag heavily inside the door of the abandoned house, and Rodney hissed angrily through his teeth.

"Careful, you behemoth! Those are delicate mechanisms!"

"Let Ronon work," John said, a soothing hand on Rodney's shoulder.

"But he doesn't know what's in there," Rodney protested. "If they should tear loose–"

"All will be well," John said, as Ronon pulled a small metal object from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. Oh, a lockpick.

"I could have done that," Rodney muttered, aware he was being ridiculous. He always snapped at people when he was frightened and the threat of Kolya and his evil-looking brutes filled him with fear. "Manipulating tumblers is child's play compared to the delicate movement of a watch."

"I'm sure you could have," John said patiently. "But see, Ronon has it."

Rodney saw that the door was indeed being shoved open, hinges creaking with disuse. Ronon stuck his head out, looked either way and then beckoned, and soon they were all out on the cobbles. The crew formed up around Rodney and Beckett and they headed for the docks, Cadman striding ahead, a hand on her pistol.

Rodney hurried along, glancing at John to make sure he needed no assistance. He'd been holding himself stiffly since they'd descended from the rooftops. "Is the wound very bad?" he asked quietly.

John's mouth tightened. "I'm fine."

Rodney doubted that but knew he would get only stoic denial even if John's side pained him greatly. He sighed and followed Teyla, thinking how utterly his life had been overturned.

"Oh," he exclaimed suddenly, stopping and looking back, stricken. "Sir Isaac! I forgot him!"

"We cannot risk going back for a cat, Rodney," John said, a worried edge in his voice. "He's a competent mouser and will fend for himself."

It was the last straw, and Rodney felt himself tearing up. Sir Isaac was indeed a good mouser, but he liked sleeping on the divan and on Rodney's bed. He liked milk and sardines and being stroked under the chin. Rodney shook his head and blinked rapidly, planting his feet as John pulled at his arm, trying to get them moving again.

"He's well enough," Ronon said gruffly, setting down one of the bags. He opened a button on his coat and Sir Isaac's whiskered face popped out, eyes slitted in annoyance. "We need another cat on the ship. Old Sumner's on his last legs."

Rodney exclaimed in delight and went to pet his cat, which promptly growled and bit him. "Ow, you fiend! Why I wanted to bring you I have no notion! You've forsaken me for this giant, in any event."

 John snorted. "Again, Ronon, you're well ahead of us."

"I’ll take a bottle of cognac in payment." Ronon buttoned the protesting cat back into his coat again.

"I'm sure you will," John said wryly, nudging Rodney towards the docks as they resumed their trek.

~ooOoo~

Disaster struck with the Pegasus in sight. Kolya and too many of his toothy hirelings loomed out of the fog to cluster threateningly like a school of sharks, blocking the way.

"God damn it," John spat, calculating the odds and the distance to safety. It was too far, and even should Lorne and the crew onboard the Pegasus notice their plight—unlikely in this weather—Rodney would still be at risk, as Kolya's target. _Not if I make myself a greater one_ , John thought, steeling himself.  His wound would tear open if he fought, but it had healed well enough once and Beckett would see to it again. He stepped forward, shielding Rodney.

"Ronon, guard them!" John ordered, for if all else were lost, Rodney and Beckett at least must have a chance of safety. "Teyla! Cadman! To me!"

Ronon dragged Rodney and Beckett back and Rodney cried out, but John had no time before the brutes were upon them. Then it was all grunting and slashing, fists and boots thudding home and close work with swords and sticks. Cadman fought like a woman possessed and Teyla was a whirling dervish. John brought one of the brutes down with his sword and felt something give way, then the hot slide of blood down his side. In the heat of battle he felt no pain.

It was to no avail. Kolya shouted curtly for all to down weapons and by then John's arms were pinned by one of the creatures and Cadman was at bay against a house, her pistol raised and cocked and Teyla behind her. John was wrenched roughly about, relieved to see Ronon safely back, shielding Rodney and Beckett, his sword drawn.

Kolya ignored John, speaking only to Rodney. "I have something of yours, McKay, and you have something of mine. I'll have the blunt you stole from me."

"Is that all? Take it and be damned, but free my companions," Rodney called. He tried to muster a sneer but he was desperately pale, his mouth a bleak slash across his face. He snatched one of his bags from Ronon, scrabbling it open.

John watched hopelessly—Rodney had given him their winnings to refit the ship, so surely there was little left. He struggled, but the thug pinning him had a foul hand across his mouth and he could not even warn Rodney that no recompense would suffice. Kolya would take what Rodney had, then kill them all.

Rodney came up with a leather pouch that swung heavily. "Tis in coin, in gold guineas," he said, and went to step forward. John cursed into the smothering hand, but Ronon was no fool. He checked Rodney with an arm across his chest, then relieved him of the pouch, raised a brow at him, nodded, cocked back his arm and threw it at Kolya.

Kolya sneered, though the missile was not aimed as a weapon. He raised a meaty paw and snatched the pouch out of the air with surprising neatness. Leering at Rodney, he opened the string and tipped the contents out into his hand.

" _Get down!_ " Rodney screamed, as Kolya stopped short, peering into his palm with a growl of rage, then flailing back with a scream, his face streaming blood.

John stamped his boot down the shin of his captor and made himself a dead weight, breaking the man's hold and dropping then rolling until he fetched up near the dock's edge, by a bollard. Above him, long white hair was splattered with blood, Kolya's band lurching about as though crazed, yelling and flailing at small, buzzing creatures. John's jaw dropped, for surely those were mechanical insects attacking Kolya's mob, brass bees with razor-edged wings and sharp stingers, bees with steel claws that opened red wounds in the faces and hands of Kolya's gang, enough of them to blind and slice even though many were snatched from the air and dashed to the cobbles. One by one, Kolya's henchmen broke and ran.

John barely had time to see Teyla drag Cadman to safety well back with Ronon, her sticks a whirling shield between them and the deadly horde, then he heard the ominous buzzing and saw a cloud of the things drifting towards him. "Oh hell, no," he said, trying to crawl off, but his wound slowed him and his hand slipped in a pool of blood.

Something struck him, and John realised Rodney, coat pulled over his head, had broken free of Ronon and run, barrelling into him and carrying them both over the edge of the dock into the harbour. They hit the water in a tangle of limbs, but luckily not from a very great height. The cold salt water closed over them, dim green above, fading rapidly into dark, frightening depths. Rodney flailed in alarm and John had to pin his arms to avoid being cold cocked. Rodney breathed in water, losing his air, and John kicked for the surface, rolling there to lie with Rodney on his chest, choking and spluttering.

"You're safe, take a breath, we are up in the air," John said urgently, scissoring his legs to keep them above the surface. Rodney was coughing and panicked, like to drown them both, but least there were none of the deadly metal insects here. "Breathe, Rodney, I have you," John gritted, struggling to hold Rodney's fool head up above the water.

"Can't  . . . swim," Rodney wheezed, sounding terrified.

"Aye, well I _can_ ," John said. "So do what I damn well say and hold still! Also, what sort of idiot plan was it to throw us in the drink?"

"Didn't mean to. Had to get you away. From the wasps," Rodney croaked. He finally ceased flailing, thank all the gods of seafaring.

"You made those damnable things?"

"McKay's Patented  . . .  Automated  . . .  Defence Wasps," Rodney managed. "Clockwork. They will have run down by now." He coughed again, shivered, then said, "Thanks for saving me from drowning."

John squeezed him in reply. "It was my turn, I believe."

He trod water, increasingly aware of the creeping cold. They needed to get back on land and into the ship's warmth before he became too chilled to swim and Rodney caught an ague. John had lost blood though, from the wound reopening, and was too weak to reach the ship in this state.

He eyed the pilings but could see no ropes or ladders. Then, to their right, a dark shape pushed through the wisps of sea-mist, solidifying into a rowboat. One of the Pegasus's boats, crewed by Lorne, Ronon and four others, and John hailed them gratefully. "It seems we are once again saved," he said. The others must have reached the safety of the ship and mounted a rescue.

It was hazy after that, as they were pulled into the boat and carried up to the ship in canvas slings, John being too weak to climb the ladder himself, which was mortifying. Beckett was in a lather and in short order they were stripped and towelled dry, bundled into dry clothes and tucked into John's bed under a mound of blankets while Beckett plied them with brandy and hot broth. John drifted in and out of awareness, hardly feeling his wound as Beckett cleaned and re-sutured it, hearing snatches of worried talk about "exposure" and "pneumonia".

He later learned his wound had become infected and the chill had gone to Rodney's chest, so they were febrile and insensible for several days. Beckett's medicines and Teyla's nursing pulled them through in the end, but it was a very near thing, leaving them both weak as kittens.

Meanwhile, Lorne had set sail, making for a sheltered Cornish harbour to purchase the last provisions and water required for a longer voyage, and to lay up until it was clear whether either or both of them would live.

But live they did, and Rodney returned to John's side, having been moved to Teyla's cabin as one delirious invalid was bad enough, but two in the same berth was unmanageable. Sir Isaac made an appearance once they were clear-headed and not like to knock him off the bed, purring violently as Rodney chucked him under the chin, then settling down in the covers to nap.

"An inauspicious start to our voyage, perhaps," John said, watching Rodney pet his cat. A chess game lay neglected by the bed, as neither of them was recovered enough to concentrate for long.

Rodney glanced at him, his eyes once again sharp with intelligence. He quirked a faint grin. "I call it very auspicious, in that we are alive."

"Aye, but I could wish to be stronger," John said, shrugging. "The inaction chafes."

"Beckett will strangle us himself if we defy his instructions," Rodney said accurately. "We are to stay in bed; he was crystal clear on that topic."

John sighed. "I know, I know, and I cannot walk far in any event. Still."

Rodney cleared his throat. "There are, however, perhaps certain  . . . things we could do? To pass the time."

"Such as?" John enquired, starting to grin.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Do not make me spell it out. Not in front of Sir Isaac." He put his hands over the cat's ears. Sir Isaac purred loudly.

John slid down in the bed and waggled his brows. " 'tis time for all good cats to go and badger Ronon," he said, sliding his hand up under Rodney's shirt and spreading his fingers on Rodney's disappointingly flat belly. That would not do, but Cornish pasties and scones with strawberry conserve and clotted cream would set him to rights. John would indulge as well: Rodney'd complained his own hipbones were sharp as knives.

Rodney slid down beside him, eyes sparkling mischievously. He leaned in for a kiss, and Sir Isaac, squashed between them, leaped up meowing crossly and eeled out through a broken plank in the cabin door.

They were too breathless to hold the kiss long but it was good to feel Rodney against him again. "I'll not be able to manage much," John admitted sheepishly.

"Yes, yes, it's always me, having to do all the work," Rodney said, sounding pleased at the prospect.

"So I should lie back and think of . . .?" John did not want to think of England; he was glad to set it behind him. Kolya and the Viscount could go to hell.

"Think of the New World," Rodney suggested, doing something delicious with his hands. John's heartbeat quickened. "Think of us as peaceful explorers, seeking adventure and fabled cities."

"Fabled cities," John repeated breathlessly. "Like . . . like Atlantis?"

"Indeed," Rodney said firmly. "Lie back and think of Atlantis."

 

~ooOoo~

 

the end

 

**Author's Note:**

> Latitude was able to be accurately determined well before Longitude, so sailors being able to determine Longitude accurately and thus pinpoint their position on the globe was a very real problem. Rodney's correct - the prize for solving the Problem of Longitude via a highly accurate Marine Chronometer was disputed for some time, but [John Harrison](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Harrison) did in the end receive it from the British government's Board of Longitude. We can only imagine that Rodney was, in the end, enjoying himself too much on the Pegasus with John and the crew, and was too busy being an explorer and inventing cunning devices, to bother contesting Harrison for the prize. :)


End file.
